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Silco feels like he was struck by lightning. Not fantasy story lightning, that parents tell their children about when they don't want to lose them in a dark storm. Not a slap and a fire.
His ears are ringing, his head pounds, his skin is buzzing. There's an echo of pain, but there's no source. He missed the strike, all that's left is a memory that doesn't feel like his own.
He thought he was ready, he was bracing himself for days now, and it still managed to shock him.
If he'd looked back, it really was building up. But even thinking adds to the pressure in his skull. No looking, only shivering, clutching Vander's hand between his. It presses on the nerves beneath his skin, but it anchors him, same as his knees and front of his shins pressing against the floor, keep him in his body. Somewhat regrettably.
"Silco." Vander's voice is laced with anxiety and suppressed panic. Silco tries not to flinch at the deep rumble.
He starts, "I'm f—" but feels bile rise in his throat. More air is flowing out of his lungs than he can breathe in. He's trembling enough for his teeth to click against each other, and trying to lie to them is pointless, anyway.
"Let me help," Vander whispers. Silco didn't tell them about the searing pain in his mind and his brittle eardrums, he never has to. Silco's already blurry vision gains a new layer of gloss, his salty tears dig into his left eye, fuck fuck fuck the burn—
He can't give up now. He can wait this out, he can do it. He has to.
A gentle thumb brushes under his eye, over his scarred skin. "I won't force you to take shimmer—" Silco's breath hitches. No. "But—Silco, breathe. breathe—Please let me help. Can I get you water? Painkillers?"
"Water," Silco's voice cracks on just those two syllables. "Would. Be fine."
Painkillers are just another drug. Silco doesn't need it, he doesn't need anything. He will ride this through and deal with the pain. He will not be weak.
"I'm going to let go of your hand, for a little. Hold this." Vander's voice is even softer now.
They replace their hand with a rumpled piece of cloth. Silco immediately digs his nails into it until he hears the creak of the synthetic fabric stretching to its limit, threatening to break his nails. He doesn't stop.
Silco feels the air beside him shift—it brushes his skin, and unlike Vander's touch, it fills his brain with dust and makes him feel sicker. He bites his tongue to muffle a frustrated scream. How much longer will he feel the withdrawal? When will he break?
The sound of Vander's breath returns, and they slowly unclasp his fingers from around the cloth, placing a cool cup in his hands. Vander doesn't let go, steadying Silco's shaky hand, bringing the cup to his lips.
When he sips, it's like he can the water flow down theough body, leaving a path of cool relief. It's painful, too, but this different pain overpowers the burning emptiness in his lungs.
Of all, the most irritating is the steady return of the pain in the left side of his face. It's minor, compared to everything else, but his stupid scar is the reason he started taking shimmer in the first place, the reason he went weeks without noticing the way his body adapted it into his system, and the reason any week skipping his dose would get his hands to tremble.
It's been twelve days.
Vander had a lot to say throughout the past week. Not much to say, really, but certainly a lot of words to say it. They don't understand the weakness of submitting to flesh, they're too trusting of the world to expect loss.
They asked him to wane off, lower the dose gradually, as if the single drop he injected could be split any further. It was the same conversation. They shuffled the same deck.
"I know why you think this matters, silco," vander would beg, and the way they say his name lights a flame in Silco's chest, so warm it starts to blister. He wishes he could turn it to anger, instead of the searing burn of— this. Of Vander. "You're not weak. And you're not strong for hurting yourself like this"
Weakness can be overcome. Vulnerability is deadly.
"You can't do this forever—you need to—"
"I don't. need. anything." Then and now, silco growls. Not at Vander in particular. Not at anyone but himself, really. Reassurance, maybe.
Vander's hand is still clasped in his. He half expects them to pull away. He's braced for it. He doesn't need them, anyway.
Instead they lean closer. With their free hand they push a stray strand of hair behind his Silco's. His hair is getting long, but not long enough to stay behind his ear for more than a few seconds. The thought spreads adoration in Silco's chest and pushes a huff and reluctant smile through his lips.
"Cured?" Vander offers.